


i have no fear

by achillesplaysthelyre



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - American Revolution, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - World War II, Ancient Greece, Angst with a Happy Ending, Earthquakes, F/F, F/M, German occupation, Holy Roman Empire, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plague, Salem Witch Trial, Socs, they die but come back in another life so ITS FINE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:35:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achillesplaysthelyre/pseuds/achillesplaysthelyre
Summary: In which Patroclus meets Achilles during different lifetimes, but the Fates continue to rip them apart.





	i have no fear

**Author's Note:**

> this fic can be a little confusing, so here's some clarification. first of all, they have different names, obviously. if the name starts with a, it's achilles. sometimes names are not given because patroclus doesn't get it. second, they are not always boys. sometimes patroclus is a boy and achilles is a girl, or patroclus is a girl and achilles is a boy, or they're both girls.

**Mount Pelion, 1281 B.C.**

“Aren’t you afraid?” I ask Achilles. His head is resting on my thighs and I’m petting his hair. It’s so long now, like a girl’s, and he likes to braid it back when we’re alone. He doesn’t answer for a minute and I think he’s drifted off to sleep, then I feel him shift and press his lips to my skin.

“What is there to be afraid of?” He looks up at me with those eyes. Clear as a river and spring green. They are beautiful, like everything about him, and innocent too. He does not know the consequences yet. _Ignorance is bliss,_ I muse.

“Many things. Your mother, for example. And your destiny,” I say. I brush my thumb over his lip, his chin, his cheek. “They will keep us apart.” His mother will stop at nothing, not even the king of gods, to keep me from him. I am a stain upon his good name, she says. I will keep him from godhood.

“Let her try. I am _aristos achaion_.” Achilles smiles and I cannot hold back a laugh. He is a rarity. There is not another soul like him, so foolhardy and sweet as a lamb. We sit underneath the fig tree a little while longer until the moon slowly starts to rise over the horizon. I push his head off my lap and stand.

“Come, let’s go home.” I offer him my hand. He takes it and hauls himself up.

“Let them try, Patroclus. They cannot take you from me, nor I from you. I swear it,” Achilles says. The moonlight shines on him like a crown. “The Muses will sing of my wrath if they dare try it. I have no fear, only love.”

I smile and take his face in my hands. He tastes like honey and figs. This, this is what I want. For eternity, if the Fates would allow it. I love him.

**Holy Roman Empire, 1287**

We meet in the woods by her farm late at night, when the moonlight guides our way and the darkness shields our movements. She is only 8, just a year younger than me, and already she shows a habit of rebellion. As she plays, she lifts her skirts and pretends to be a knight in the king’s army.

“I do not wish to be a wife,” she tells me as we draw shapes in the dirt.

“What else could you be?” I am confused. Women cannot be knights, not even farmers. They wash the clothes, churn the butter, and birthe children to work the land. But I look at Alianor and see something else, a spark that my own mother lacks.

“I am not sure yet, but I will think of something.” she laughs. I watch her twirl her wrists as she dances. I believe her.

A fortnight passes and she falls ill. It happens so suddenly, and her family cannot afford a doctor. She does not make it through the night. They bury her facing west and I find myself missing the flush in her cheeks.

 

**London, England, 1341**

I cannot move. The vultures crowd around my body. They are waiting, I think, to devour my rotting flesh.

“Go ahead,” I say to them. The pain is unbearable. One comes down. It touches my sweating forehead.

“He will be dead soon,” it says. “There is nothing I can do.” I want to cry in relief. It will all be over soon. The vulture leans in closer. For a moment, when my mind breaks through the fog of fever, I think I see a man. Then I close my eyes and let them tear at my body with their long, pointed beaks.

 

**Salem, Massachusetts, 1692**

Paranoia spreads through the settlement like an epidemic. There are rumors of women that make deals with the Devil. _Witches_ , they say. Fingers are pointed, women are jailed, and families are torn apart. Mine is no exception.

Our neighbor, the wily O’Neill, accuses my wife of bewitching his horse. It is a foolish accusation, but the town believes him, and my wife is taken from our crying infant. I am forced to watch as they whisk her away, head bowed, lips moving quickly in prayer. Our son cries through the night and does not sleep for even a minute.

“What will they do to her?” I ask.

“Unless she pleads guilty, she will be hung,” they answer.

“My wife is a holy woman!” I protest. “She wouldn’t dare touch the Devil’s Book, much less sign her name in it.”

There is nothing else I can do. If I defend her any more than I already have, the townspeople will suspect me of witchcraft as well. I wait until her trial, where she pleads not guilty to the judges.

“Abigail,” I say. “Please, you must confess.”

“Aye, do as your husband says,” interrupts the jailkeeper. Abigail stares at the wall, her gaze fiery. Her hands are clasped in prayer.

“I will not confess to sins I have not committed. I am a devout woman, Salem knows this, yet they wish to see me hanged. I would rather die, knowing I have not sinned, than live with a lie. My life is in the hands of God, now. Only His judgment matters.”

I have no shame in begging. I try to grab her hands through the bars that separate us, but she wrenches them away. “Abigail, please. Think of our son, of me.” She turns her head away towards the ceiling.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she says. I cannot see her eyes when she says this.

Within the week, she is dragged to the hallows. Everyone watches as the noose is brought over her slender neck. I can’t find it in me to look away when the platform gives out beneath her feet. Her body writhes and kicks and then she is still.

 

**Charlestown, Massachusetts, 1775**

It is a humid June day in Massachusetts. Sweat is dripping down my uniform in rivulets, but I don’t have time to wipe it away. There are bodies falling all around me, their limbs like tree roots, and lobsterbacks everywhere. I lost sight of my infantry long ago. I struggle to catch my breath in the sea of red. It feels like I am drowning.

Maybe that is why I don’t notice the man and his bayonet until the point is extruding from my chest. The blood begins to spill quickly. I gasp when it is pulled out and bring my hand to the gaping wound. It shocks me how warm the blood is, and how thick. I catch a glimpse of the Englishman’s blond head as I fall to my knees in the dirt. Flies already begin to swarm around me, as if they can smell death on me.

The man’s green eyes are wide. His face is the last I see before I close my eyes. The pool of blood escaping my mouth is the last thing I feel. I’m not mad at him, I think as my last choked breath leaves me.

 

**San Francisco, California, 1906**

I am awakened by a sound that resembles a stampede of a million animals. My bed is shaking violently and I’m confused. I try to stand, but the entire building is moving, and I wobble towards my parents’ bedroom. My mother looks disheveled and my father is running around in his sleepwear.

“Mama,” I whimper. I’m so tired. As soon as the shaking stops, I run to my mother and hide my face in her nightgown. “Mama, what happened?”

“It was just an earthquake,” my father says. He pries me away from my mother, who does nothing to stop him, and takes me to my room. I start to cry when I see my shattered trinkets on the floor. He scowls at the sight of the fat tears rolling down my face.

“Go back to bed, Peggy,” he tells me. I don’t want to go back to bed. The floor is covered in glass. But the look in my father’s eyes is cold, so I nod and clamber under the sheets. My wet cheeks stain the pillowcase and I cry harder. Sleep does not come to me again easily. The walls are thin and my father’s shouts are clear as day.

But it isn’t his shouts that wake me the second time. My eyes burn when I open them and I choke on the heavy smoke that is settling like a fog. Someone is standing over me, shaking me by the shoulders, and it is not my mother. It’s a girl my own age, but I cannot make out her features.

“Peggy,” she cries. “Peggy, wake up. We need to leave.” I wonder how she knows my name. Then I realize that it’s Anna Parry, the older girl from the apartment next to ours. Our fathers do not get along.

“Anna, what’s happening?” I am pulled out of bed and out the door. The smoke is getting worse. “Where are my parents?”

“My father left to get help, I’m sure they are with him,” she says. We run to the front door, the floorboards warm beneath our bare feet, and I try to tug it open. I scream when the hot metal burns my palm. I am crying and coughing up bile. All I can smell is scorched flesh.

“Stand behind me,” Anna says. She is trying to sound brave but I am not fooled. Her voice is hoarse and face pale as the moon. She grabs the handle with the hem of her nightgown. There is a raging fire on the other side, crackling and hot as the African deserts. Anna shuts the door and backs away slowly.

She does not say it, but I know we’re trapped. My throat itches and I try not to cough.

“Perhaps we can escape through the window.” I shake my head. It hurts to speak. I grab Anna’s hands in my good one and cry even harder. The fire will come for us soon. If we are lucky, we will be long dead before it does.

 

**Paris, France, 1944**

I meet Albert Paul in a small café near the Seine River. He looks handsome in his pristine uniform and I flush when he smiles at me from across the patio. It isn’t uncommon for a German soldier to chase a Frenchwoman, and I suppose I’m not any different. When we meet again a week later, he brings me a little bouquet of wildflowers. His golden cheeks are painted pink and they’re warm under my lips. He says he’s from Flensburg, a town near the Denmark-Germany border, and wanted to be an actor before enlisting. “What about you?” he asks. “What is your dream?”

“A nurse,” I say. “I like helping people.” We meet again after that. He takes me out to the countryside on his off day in a sleek car. I take photos on his camera. His sleeves are rolled up, his shirt unbuttoned, and my carefully pinned curls are mussed when he picks me up. He kisses me carefully in the car on the ride back. His lips taste like sweet wine.

We visit the pool next. I sunbathe and dip my feet into the cold water. Albert jumps off the diving board and swims towards me. He grins broadly. I laugh at the sight of his blond hair plastered to his forehead. Later, he insists I put on his uniform.

“Why?” I ask. He shoves the bundle of clothes into my arms. I’m still in my bathing suit.

“Just the jacket, darling. I want a photo.”

“And what will you do with a photo of me?” I slip the jacket on. The sleeves hang past my hands and it smells of him; like cheap soap and old spice aftershave. He places his cap on my curls and smiles.

“I’ll keep it forever, to remember you by.” He captures the photo mid-laugh.

That’s how we spend the summer. We drive and swim and kiss and tumble in fields. We’re boisterous, reckless like untrained pups, and I love every minute of it. We get looks from the partisans, but Albert isn’t bothered by them.

“I love you,” he says. “I don’t care what they think. We love each other.”

I love him, too. Everything is perfect. We talk about marriage, although we know it’s risky. He could be taken prisoner, and I would have to follow as his wife. The end of summer nears and the Allies arrive. Albert escapes without saying goodbye. I understand why, but I don’t leave the flat for days. All I have left are the pictures.

A week after the Liberation of Paris, I start to throw up. My belly begins to grow. It isn’t noticeable, just a small bump I can keep covered with my dresses, but it’ll become obvious in a month or so. I start to cry. I can’t stay in Paris. I will be targeted as a collaborator; they’ll shave my head and parade me around the city. My child will face worse. I consider writing Albert. He deserves to know that he’ll be a father. But he never mentioned an address.

I keep my head down when I buy a ticket to Quebec, Canada. I fear being recognized as Albert Paul’s girl. The ticket is expensive, but I have enough saved to afford it, and I leave the next week without saying goodbye. There’s no one to say goodbye to. I pretend to be a widower when I arrive. “My husband died in the war,” I say to anyone who asks, rubbing my swollen belly. My son is born in late May. He comes out quickly with a crown of blond hair and green eyes, like his father.

 

**Portland, Maine, 1965**

“We aren’t so different, you know,” Andrew says. He touches my jacket and smiles naively. I push his arm off and take a step back.

“No. We’re complete opposites. And we shouldn’t be doing this.” He grabs my jacket again, holds the worn leather tight, and pulls me back. His eyes are big and genuine. I want to look away, but I’ve never been able to look away from Andrew. He’s beautiful for a guy, like he belongs in the movies instead of Maine, where nothing ever happens. He’s the type of guy you wouldn’t expect to be necking another guy underneath the bleachers.

“Why not?” His lips ghost over my ear, teasing. My hands drift to his waist, underneath his letterman jacket. We shouldn’t be doing this, I remind myself.

“We’ll get figured out. Someone’ll see and you’ll get kicked off track. Some greaser like me isn’t worth it,” I try to convince him. But he’s tangling his fingers in my hair and kissing me slowly, like we have all the time in the world.

“You’re not ‘some greaser.’ Not to me, at least.” I want to laugh at him, at how ignorant to the real world he is, but instead I just kiss him back. The bell rings, loud and shrill, and I pull away.

“I’ve gotta get to class,” I say. Andrew kisses my cheek and smiles. Again. He’s full of smiles.

“Meet me after practice, by that record store you like.” Then he walks away, leaving me alone underneath the bleachers and feeling restless. I fish a cigarette and lighter out of my pocket and have a quick smoke before going back to class. I’m late and smell like cigarettes, but the teacher ignores it because I’m a greaser and reprimanding me won’t change anything. And when I see Andrew in the halls, surrounded by his soc friends, I look away, not wanting to give into the temptation.

I wait outside the record store at 6:30, the lit cigarette between my lips the only thing keeping me warm. I consider going inside to buy a record, maybe something by The Rolling Stones, but I see Andrew crossing the street towards me. I throw the cigarette to the ground and put it out with the toe of my boot before slipping into the alley. He buries his face in my neck almost immediately and sighs. I kiss the top of his head. We stay like that for a minute, just breathing each other in and talking, until we’re discovered by a gang of socs who are already drunk.

“Hey,  look at the fags,” one of them says, his voice gruff. I push Andrew off me. I want to tell him to run, that he has more to lose than I do, but the socs are already rolling up their sleeves. I square my shoulders, ready for a fight, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. This is nothing like the rumbles I’ve been to. They outnumber us easily. One of them has a knife.

I do my best to fight back, but I’ve never been much of a fighter. They grab me by my hair and pummel my face into the ground, complaining about the grease as they spit out slurs. I black out, thanking God for the small mercy. Not that I think God would be listening to me of all people; a greaser and a faggot, His favorite combination. I wake up in a hospital bed. My uncle is sitting in a chair by the door. I don’t notice the tears until he wipes them away.

“Patrick, my boy,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this had to happen to you.”

“Will you kick me out, like Dad did? Because I was with a boy?”

“No, ‘course not.” He kisses my forehead and I sob even harder.

“What about…” I don’t want to say his name. Chiron knows who I’m talking about. He runs his fingers through my hair, which I realize has been cut sloppily. I don’t care about my hair at the moment.

“His mother took him,” is all he says. My heart sinks in my chest. Andrew’s parents are divorced and his mother lives in California. He’s gone.

 

**Athens, Greece, 2018**

“That cute guy’s been staring at you all night,” Briseis shouts over the blaring music. I move closer, trying to not spill our drinks, and laugh.

“I don’t think a cute guy would even spare me a glance, Bri. You’re drunk,” I say. She takes the cup from my hand and chugs. I grimace.

“Not drunk, just paying attention. Look, over there, on the couch.” She points at a group of athletes sitting on the couch. Most of them have half-drunk girls on their laps. “The blond one,” she elaborates. I take of sip of cheap beer before looking. There, on the end of the couch, is a cute guy that just so happens to be staring. He doesn’t turn away when we make eye contact.

“You should talk to him,” Briseis says into my ear. “He’s obviously into you, and if things don’t work out, at least you’ll get laid.” I shake my head.

“You know I don’t like one-night stands,” I remind her.

She throws her hands up and groans. “Well, I tried. Have fun being alone tonight.” She plants a wet kiss to my cheek and slips away. I watch her go, feeling a little lost, when someone taps my shoulder softly. I turn to snap at whoever it is to fuck off, but my jaw drops when I realize it’s the blond.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “It’s just… I feel like I’ve met you before, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I would have remembered you,” I say. He frowns and takes a step back.

“Sorry, then. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“What’s your name?” I ask him. “Maybe I’ll remember then.” I don’t know why I say this. But I don’t want him to leave, not yet, because he’s cute and maybe I _do_ know him. Something about him seems familiar.

The blond seems embarrassed. “It’s Achilles. My mother’s a history buff,” he explains. I throw my head back and laugh.

“My name’s Patroclus,” I say. “Neither of my parents were history buffs.” Achilles laughs too.

“Maybe it’s meant to be. You know, fated.” He looks serious.

“We’ve only just met,” I whisper. I’m not sure if he heard me. Achilles shrugs.

“Let me buy you a coffee. We can get to know each other,” he offers. I look at him, _really_ look at him. His face is like an open book, easy to read, and so is his posture. I look at his lashes, long and dark, and the easy smile he’s always flashing. The hands curled around a red solo cup are slender and his lips are full. There’s something about him that makes me want to say yes. So I do.

I say, “Yes.” Achilles gives me his phone and I type my number in.

“I’ll see you.” He winks and walks away. My cheeks feel warm. I drain the rest of my beer and find Briseis, who’s talking to Chryseis by the kitchen.

“I gave the cute guy my number,” I tell her. As she and Chryseis congratulate me, I feel a buzz in my pocket.

 _Hey_ , the text says. _Wanna get that coffee now?_

“Sorry, girls,” I interrupt them. “I’ve got a date.” To Achilles I say, _Meet me outside._

  


**Author's Note:**

> i hope u enjoyed, sorry if it was confusing lol xx


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